


Dragged to the Darkness Below

by ConstantlyTiredReader



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Alternate Universe - Underswap (Undertale), Falling In Love, M/M, Mafia AU, Spicyhoney - Freeform, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Papyrus/Underswap Papyrus (Undertale), Underswap Papyrus (Undertale)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:20:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28943589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstantlyTiredReader/pseuds/ConstantlyTiredReader
Summary: Edge didn’t mean to get involved with the mafia after winding up beaten in an alley. He can take care of himself, no matter what his pretty asshole of a so-called rescuer might imply.Now, he's determined to get far away from Stretch and his world of crime as soon as he can pay his debts, hopefully before he gets sucked into it all.
Relationships: Papyrus/Papyrus (Undertale), Spicyhoney
Comments: 33
Kudos: 55





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many of the ideas for this fic come thanks to MessedUpEssy, who shared some lovely thoughts about a spicyhoney mafia au where Stretch is the one in the mafia. Needless to say, those ideas invaded my brain, and here we are now!

Edge wishes he could say this was the first time he ended up curled up in an alley on the bad side of town, beaten to a pulp, but that would be a lie. Unfortunate, really, the number of times this keeps happening.

Cold rain, sharp as ice, falls on him. His clothes, a dark tank and jeans bearing more holes than actual fabric, do nothing to protect him from it. On the plus side, it goes a decent way to wash away the marrow and filth strewn around him. At this point in his day, he’ll take what he can. And stars knows he can use all the help he can get.

His brother will be furious with him. There’s no question about it. Red hates it when he gets up to this kind of shit. Recklessness without reward, as he would say, is just pure, fucking stupidity. And taking on half a dozen humans alone, each one of them armed with guns and knives in addition to their violent intent? Stupid. _Especially_ without a decent excuse. 

Mind his own fucking business. That’s what Red taught him, way back Underground when they were both still in stripes. Don’t make himself a target unless he can guarantee that he will end up on top. High HP doesn’t make a monster invulnerable. Fighting experience and desperation, although useful tools to have, can only get a guy so far.

Bitterly, Edge wonders how much of that spiel he will have to sit through ~~if~~ _when_ he makes it back to his brother.

For now, though, there’s nothing he can do but wait. Even the seediest of bars should be closed by now; chances of anyone showing up to kick him when he’s already down are slim to none. Wait, and hope that he can rest up enough to limp his way across the city, back to his home.

* * *

The city is always at its prettiest at night.

Under his umbrella, Stretch appreciates the sights of his domain. Sure, this district may not be the most sophisticated, but there’s something special about the way that flashy neon lights reflect against the wet pavement, spectacular even when half the lights are burnt out in the first place. There aren’t any stars; there is way too much light pollution — and regular pollution too, for that matter — to see even the brightest ones. A shame, really, but at least he can still see the full moon, edges blurred by a thin veil of clouds. 

He slowly blows out a puff of smoke, watching it curl up and away. Part of him regrets not changing out of his work clothes before going out. Sure, all it should take is one look at him for people to know not to fuck with him, but even the best tailored suits can’t compare to an oversized sweater. As much as Blue and Dings maintain that image is everything, Stretch would like to stand by the fact that comfort is pretty damn nice too. 

Plus, if he wore something different, his bros would be less likely to find out that he’s been out chain-smoking again.

Tampering out the remains of his smoldering cigarette underfoot, Stretch keeps going. He should probably be heading back soon. Business never sleeps, and all that shit. Dings probably has some big meetings planned for tomorrow. Big meetings, big plans, and big headaches. But hey, at least it’s better than customer service, or so he hears. 

At least in the mafia business, he’s free to beat up ignorant assholes instead of letting them walk all over him.

Lighting up a new cigarette, Stretch shuffles a little further. The alone time is nice, getting to chill without a security guard or five breathing down his neck. He’d sneak out more often, but eh, that’s a good way to get Blue to blow a gasket. And when Blue freaks out, Dings is more likely to join in with the “I took you in as a brother, how could you risk yourself like this” speech again, and that’s not what he’d like to call some good family bonding time. He could do without that, thanks.

Then again, based on the way he stumbles on an abandoned bottle, nearly nose-diving straight into the pavement, maybe he deserves that one.

“shit,” he mutters half under his breath, brushing mud off of his suit to no avail. Bernadine is going to be so pissed when he adds this into his laundry; after the dye incident, Stanley told him that she threatened to make him take over his own dry-cleaning if he makes such a mess again. And Stretch believes it. If it weren’t for the fact that she actually enjoys doing laundry for some stars-damned reason, Blue would’ve added her to his list of enforcers ages ago.

A weird shuffling in the alley catches his attention. And, now that he thinks about it, Stretch definitely didn’t see the bottle before now. Sure, it could be that he’s just doing a shit job at paying attention, but there’s a trail leading up to it. Almost like the bottle was only recently rolled here. Something seems fishy here, and it’s not just because he’s way too close to the docks. 

Walking light on his feet, he approaches the alley. Stretch shoves his hand in his pocket, close to his gun. Sure, if a scuffle were to occur, magic would be easier. But sometimes, weapons are better. For one, humans are much more likely to use a gun than a monster, which automatically shifts the suspicion off him. He keeps his umbrella up. Water in the eye sockets blurring his vision isn’t the best way to start a fight either. An easy grin on his face, he asks, “anyone there?”

* * *

Instinctively, Edge draws on his magic, as feeble as it is. It doesn’t sound like any of the shitheads that left him here, but he can’t be sure. He wasn’t exactly in a place to memorise voices at the time. 

Then again, he definitely doesn’t remember any of them looking anything like _that_. 

This person has what Edge thinks is a fairly narrow build, accentuated by a disheveled suit, tie hanging undone around his collar. His face is obscured by a gaudy orange umbrella, which clashes horribly with his fine clothes. Something about it all screams trust fund baby turned businessman, slumming about the bad side of town for an adventure before returning to daddy’s yacht. Probably out drinking, to be precise; that’s the only reason he can think of for the suit to be such a fucking mess, rumpled and stained like that, and Edge can’t imagine owning something like that and then just ruining it.

“well shit.” The person takes another step forward, tilting his umbrella back to reveal his face. 

Absolutely not one of the shitheads, then. 

Those assholes were all humans. Now that Edge can actually see, it’s obvious that this is a monster. Another skeleton, to be precise. In any other circumstance, he would probably call him pretty. Unlike Edge, his gleaming bones appear to be without scar, hinting at an easy life. And now this suit has come to gawk at him while he’s down. Joy.

Refusing to remain passive, Edge cranes his head to take a better look at his new company. It isn’t comfortable. Not in the slightest. The other skeleton is tall, possibly even taller than himself. It’s hard to tell without standing up. Something about his grin feels wrong. Maybe it’s that it doesn’t fully reach his off-white eye lights. Maybe it’s the sharpness to it, so incongruous when paired with his blunt teeth. No matter the case, Edge scowls up at him sullenly, waiting to see what he wants. 

Apparently, what the stranger wants is to poke at his bruised ribs with his well-polished shoes. Asshole. “well,” he says, raising his voice over Edge’s pained hiss, “you’re obviously still alive, considering the lack of dust and all. you good?”

Edge only dignifies that stupid ass question with a growl. No point in answering, as far as he’s concerned, when the answer should be obvious. As of last time he checked, being covered in blood and bruises typically doesn’t qualify as being ‘good’. His growl breaks off into a snarl when the pretty asshole of a stranger steps closer into his personal bubble.

“ooooh,” he chuckles, jumping back nimbly, “cat’s got some bite, huh? oh, and some claws too. don’t you worry, precious, i’m just tryin’ to help.”

It’s an automatic response to puff up at that, white-hot indignation giving him a pulse of energy. That quickly comes to an end, however, as his body makes a series of complaints at the movement. “I don’t need your fucking help!”

Edge will be damned if he lets some rude excuse of a trust fund asshole be the one to get him back on his feet. Sure, it could be nice not to spend the rest of the night cramped up in the alley, but he’s dealt with worse. This isn’t the first time he’s survived something like this, and it’s not going to be the last. Edge is sure of it. He is no damsel in distress, waiting for a knight in navy silk to rescue him. He can and will handle his own problems, thanks. _Especially_ when he has no reason to trust this stranger. As far as he knows, going along with the skeleton’s ‘help’ will end him up in worse shit than simply ignoring him. 

For some reason, this earns another chuckle from the stranger. He squats down, holding his non-umbrella bearing hand out in the universal non-threatening gesture. Not that Edge is going to get anywhere near him because of that. He’s not an idiot, no matter what this stranger may seem to think. Trusting blindly in a simple hand motion is a good way to get a knife in the back. 

“sure you don’t,” he says, voice rich with sarcastic amusement. “you’ve definitely got everything all handled. no issues here at all, are there?” Eye lights glinting with a hint of fiery orange, he asks, “now what happened?”

“None of your damn business.”

“oh, you’d be surprised,” the stranger smirks, “but you keep telling yourself that, kitten.”

With a groan, he stands back to his feet, casually brushing off his trousers. The smirk remains on his face. It’s almost unfairly attractive, really, but Edge is willing to ignore that; one crooked smile doesn’t make falling into any pretty stranger’s trap worthwhile. Reaching in his pocket, he takes out a (very expensive looking) phone. He doesn’t break eye contact as he dials. 

“hey tony,” he says. “yeah, i know. i know, i don’t need you to tell me that one. anyways, i need one of the cars. alley between joe’s and maureen’s, just off of eighty-second and fifth. yeah, that’s the place.” Edge raises a brow. The pretty asshole rattled that off what he assumes is their current location better than he would have guessed. He himself only has the vaguest idea of where he ended up, relying on other, more significant landmarks, and this is far from his first time at this end of town. “sounds good. thanks tony.”

He hangs up. “our ride—”

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“—should be here in a few minutes. so in the meantime, honey, you keep looking cute, and i’ll keep watch, you got it?”

The nerve of this— 

Edge collapses as he tries to sit up, before he could even make it to his elbows. The concrete scrapes against his bare bones. Stars, he hurts. All the adrenaline from the fight has faded out by now, making every single injury so much more obvious. Exhaling through grit teeth, he asks, “Are you planning on telling me where the fuck you’re planning to take me?”

“depends. are you gonna tell me what happened?”

Touché. 

“So you’re kidnapping me, then.”

The stranger shrugs, hand still in his pocket. It pulls at his suit jacket, opening it to display a hint of suspenders. “eh, kidnapping’s a strong word. i’d like to call it getting you some much needed help.”

“Which I don’t need. Besides, if you _care_ so much about my wellbeing,” Edge says, spitting the word out, “why not call an ambulance instead?”

The stranger remains unfazed. “in a case like this, an ambulance means cops and cops and me don’t exactly get along,” he says flippantly. “next question?”

Fair enough. It’s not a secret that most cops treat monsters like shit. Edge has put up with it since he and his brother reached the Surface, much to his annoyance. Even if the stranger has as much money as his suit implies — hell, maybe even because of it — human cops would still find reasons to fuck him over. 

It’s not like he particularly wanted an ambulance anyways. He still has his phone, unless it broke during the fight; he could’ve called one. The fees would be hell, and that’s ignoring anything else that could be racked up at the ER. 

The question is, does Edge feel better about trusting himself to a paramedic or this random skeleton?

A few more moments pass in silence. The only sounds are the typical white noise of the city combined with the rhythmic scraping of the stranger flicking a lighter on and off. Every few flickers, he runs his fingers through the small flame, fast enough to avoid burning himself. In the distance, sirens blare. 

Edge should run. Yes, it will be awful, and he would probably be slow as all get out, but it should be doable. He could make it work. Somehow, he gets the feeling that the stranger won’t get in his way; he may be able to throw words back and forth with ease, but that doesn’t mean he’s willing — or able — to get his hands dirty. And even if he does, Edge still has some tricks up his (metaphorical) sleeves. Years of living with Red have taught him to fight dirty when the situation calls for it. He can do this.

And yet, by the time a set of headlights illuminate the alley, he hasn’t moved an inch.

“here we are,” the stranger says, drawing the words into a near yawn. “let’s getcha into your royal carriage, kitten.” Turning on his heel, he waves at the nice black car. 

Well, calling it a car might be an understatement, really. Limo might be more accurate, but even that seems inadequate for all this sleek black paint and polished chrome. There is some kind of design on the window, but before Edge can make it out, more monsters in suits pile out.

“be nice and gentle with my friend here, fellas. we wouldn’t want to give him the wrong impression, you hear?”

A near simultaneous chorus of “Yes, boss” rings out among the suits. One, a large bear monster, scoops Edge up in a single motion, as easy as picking up a rag doll. Immediately, he struggles against the hold. Limbs flailing, Edge does his best to wiggle free. Regardless, the bear’s grip remains strong, the bulk of his fur under his suit preventing it from feeling too crushing. 

His attempts come to an abrupt halt when the stranger turns back to face him.

With the car’s lights behind him, his skull is all hard shadows encased against stark white highlights. Lighting up a cigarette, he takes a long drag, blowing out a perfect smoke ring. At this angle, a flash of light reflects on a small, silver pin on his lapel. In the darkness of the alley, it was easy not to notice. Now, it feels like all he can see. A small skull, jagged flames rise behind it with an elegant capital G etched in top and centre. It’s a familiar insignia. Too familiar, and Edge feels uneasily confident in assuming that the window design will match.

Soul sinking, Edge can’t help but wonder what his future will hold for him now that he knows who — or rather _what_ — he has gotten himself involved with.

“come on, kitten,” the stranger murmurs, “let’s take you home.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick warning for some violence

Needless to say, Edge is pretty damn sure he isn’t going home.

Resting on a wide seat of ridiculously comfortable and buttery leather — the deep red a near match to his own blood, which is rather fortunate for whoever will have to clean it — all he can do is glare at his abductor. Not that he seems to notice; he’s too busy smoking away at his cigarette, making the already stifling air even harder to choke down.

From what gossip has taught him, this is most likely Stretch. One of the heads of the Gaster family, although a lot of the finer details about how he fits in remains a mystery. Rumours say that this is intentional; it’s a lot harder to capture and kill the guy in charge if you aren’t one hundred percent sure you have the right guy. Personally, Edge isn’t sure if he can agree with that logic. As long as Stretch is one of the heads, wouldn’t that still make him a valuable target, even if he isn’t all the way at the top of the food chain? In any case, there is one aspect from public consensus that keeps circling through Edge’s mind, even as he sits here. 

Supposedly, if you have to deal with one of the Gasters, pray to the angel above that you deal with Stretch; he will always be the best bet.

That, however, doesn’t mean Edge can let his guard down. When given the choice between a bullet to the head and a punch to the face, the latter may be preferable, but that doesn’t make it any less painful in the end.

“hey,” his… host — probably best to think of him as that for now, so that he doesn’t anger him — says, finally tamping out his cigarette in a crystal ashtray. That ashtray alone probably costs a few months-worth of Edge’s rent. He reaches into a built-in fridge, pulling out some trays of appetizers. Fresh fruit, mostly, along with mysterious pastries and meat and cheese. Popping a grape into his mouth, he holds the tray out towards Edge. “hungry?”

 _Yes._ Stars yes. Just eyeing those snacks has his mouth flooding with ravenous magic, a reaction that he has to quickly swallow back. Given his injuries, it makes sense. Edge desperately needs to refuel his magic. 

Everything should be safe to eat… why would a mafia boss poison a random monster he found dying in an alley? It wouldn’t make sense to waste resources like that. Then again, that’s assuming that crime bosses work on the same level of practical logic Red raised him with. (Fuck, how is he going to explain _this_ to his brother?) The biggest deterrent, however, is the fact that anything he takes from the Gasters, he will have to repay in whole.

Edge can only handle so large a debt, so he takes a deep breath. Releases it, pushing away a wave of pained fatigue. Then, he firmly says, “No. I’m not hungry.”

Stretch — until he finds out otherwise, Edge is going to assume that’s who he is — raises a skeptical brow. Understandable, really. Still, he doesn’t question Edge’s statement. Leaning back in a deep slouch, he rolls his neck from side to side. With his arms resting across the back of his seat, he looks Edge up and down. Through him, really, deeper than should ever be possible. 

Spine prickling uncomfortably, Edge can do nothing but glare back.

“so…” Stretch says, drawing out the word and letting his gaze linger at his injuries. “are you ready to tell me what happened, kitten?”

* * *

_A scream. Loud and shrill, it echoed out from the back alley, beckoning to him._

_Feet pounding against rough pavement, dodging debris. Lunging forward, fists burning with crimson magic he dared not release. The force of impact. An angry grunt, followed by snarls and barked orders._

_Too many hands grabbing at his arms as he dragged his heels against the ground. The sound of gasping tears behind him, getting further away with each second. He didn’t have time to think about that. Not with the figure approaching him, blocking out the rest of the alley in shadows._

_Pain. His breath guttering out. Trying to catch his breath, even as his ribs protested the action. Shaking off enough of the hands, limbs flailing with the intent to get free. To cause harm. Rolling away, scapula scraping against the ground._

_He stood up._

_He kept going._

_Knuckles bruised and bleeding. Aching, just like the rest of him. His breath was too heavy, wheezing on the exhales. He staggered with each step, dodging like Red taught him. But it wasn’t enough. More blows managed to reach him, even if he delivered his fair share in return._

_Hitting the pavement, barely shielding his head with his arms. The sight of shoes all around him. His eyes screwed shut, unable to do anything but wait for it all to end._

_Laughter, drunken and cruel._

_Then, finally, silence._

* * *

Scowling, Edge looks to the side. There’s a panel of buttons, each one glossy and black. What they could all be for, he could never guess. “I said it’s none of your fucking business.” 

Stretch chuckles. “you keep telling yourself that. now, how ‘bout you relax a bit, huh? everything’s gonna be all right.”

Edge decidedly does not listen to that suggestion. How stupid does this skeleton think he is? As if he would allow himself that vulnerability when he’s already so weak. It’s bad enough as it is, knowing that he’s stuck in an enclosed vehicle with a damned mafia boss. 

Yet…

He’s so tired. The last surge of energy brought on by the instinct to fight has faded. His magic is low, every spare bit of it going to heal him. And, even if he wasn’t so injured, it’s late. So late. He can’t tell through the dark tinted windows, but Edge is sure that the first hints of dawn should be looming through the distance by now. Combine that with the comfort of the plush seats, the gently dimmed lighting, and soft music playing through the radio… 

Before he can stop himself, Edge slumps back, sleep attacking him with a fury greater than anyone he faced that night.

* * *

Edge is sinking.

All in all, it’s not awful. Whatever is swallowing his body is comfortable. Warm. Eyes closed, he’s content to stay there, unmoving. And why the hell not? This is so much better than thinking about all of his injuries and—

 _Wait_.

Blinking, Edge squints at the ornate ceiling above him. That right there is a definite sign that something’s wrong; if he were at home, he’d have a view of grungy, water-stained beige tiles. And today? He shouldn’t even be seeing that. He should be outside, shivering on the ground, not covered in warm, silky bedding. Not lying on a plush mattress that cradles each and every one of his bones, pleasant to the point of nearly being uncomfortable.

“Damn it,” he mutters under his breath, memories of last night steadily returning to his still foggy mind.

With a grunt, Edge pushes himself up to a seated position, golden blankets pooling across his hips. Each joint protests the action. Just barely, he manages to hold back a pained wince.

Then again, that mostly has to do with who is sitting across the room from him.

“mornin’, sunshine,” Stretch says, flipping a gold coin between his fingers. There’s almost something mocking to it; Edge finds himself bristling against the words without thinking. In a single, fluid move, the skeleton stands up, the chair scraping against the floor as a flourish. “good to see you’re up and moving. well, mostly,” he adds with a short laugh. “i was getting bored sitting here.”

“Watching me like a creep, you mean?” 

Luckily for him, Stretch only seems amused at his impulsive response. The side of his mouth twitches into a lopsided grin. “heh.” He crosses to loom over Edge at the bedside. “you could say that. but in my defense, kitten, i needed to be ready to take care of this as soon as you woke up. plus,” he continues before Edge can work up the wits to ask what ‘this’ is, his pale eye lights twinkling, “someone had to make sure you didn’t get yourself into even more trouble.”

Edge opens his mouth to protest, only to swiftly shut it. Fair enough. Angel knows that if Red was here — and stars, it’s selfish, but he wishes that his brother was here to have his back in this mess — he would have already taken the efforts to tie Edge to the bed to prevent any ‘goddamn shenanigans’. Not that it would stop him, of course, but it’s the thought that counts.

Still, that doesn’t explain why Stretch is still here instead of an average mafia thug, nor what he plans to do now that he’s awake.

In the meantime, Stretch had paced back to the other side of the room, dragging his chair a bit closer. He settles in, propping his feet up on the edge of the bed, legs crossed at the ankles; it shows off a painfully bright strip of oranges socks. It’s tempting to smack his feet away, but that would require Edge to get up. Besides, it’s better than having him loom over him.

“welp, d’ya need anything? water, food? or are you good for me to start?”

“Whatever,” Edge mutters, still glaring at those shoes on his bed. At least they _look_ somewhat clean; there isn’t any visible grime caking the treads and they’re dry enough. Seeing wisps of green in his peripheral, however, is enough to make him sit up and squawk, “What the hell are you doing?”

The magic dims slightly around Stretch’s hands. Not much; there’s still a thick haze of emerald surrounding each one. “what does it look like?”

“why now?” he counters, ignoring the rhetorical question. It’s pretty obvious that his host was angling to heal him, for some unknowable reason. To find reasonable excuses to increase the load of his debt to him, perhaps? Because now, Edge has a second thing to be ‘grateful’ for.

Huffing out a near-laugh, he adjusts his legs, finally removing his feet from the bed. Thank fuck. “when else was i supposed to heal you? i’m not about to do this when you’re all unconscious and shit; that’s even creepier than me sittin’ here minding my own business.”

Ugh, why does this asshole have to keep making good points? Jaw clenched, he folds his arms. “Don’t want you to heal me.”

Stretch raises a sardonic brow. “would you rather me shove you back on the streets like this, _kitten_? because i’m sure that could be arranged, if that’s what really floats your boat.”

It takes some effort not to sputter at the damned pet name. However… “If you care so much,” he starts, eyes narrowed, “why didn’t you just do it in the car?”

Stretch tilts his head back in a loud laugh. His legs sprawl out wide, and Edge can’t help but gulp when he runs his hands down the inseam of his _very_ tailored pants. His suit — a new one, unspoiled by last night’s filth — was already suggestively rumpled, tie loosened and cuffs rolled up to show the sleek lines of his forearms. “please, kitten—”

“Don’t call me that!”

Sockets half-lidded, Stretch smirks at him. “would you prefer tiger?”

“I’d _prefer_ nothing at all.”

He shrugs, a twinkle in his eye lights as he leans back in his chair. “well, then, ‘nothing at all’, the reason i didn’t heal you on the way here is because it would have been a waste of both of our time.” With a single sweep of his hand, he gestures at Edge. He lingers especially at his chest; looking down, Edge takes in the crusted dirt and marrow covering his shredded tank top. “until we clean you up a bit, it’s hard to tell what, exactly, you need.”

Edge frowns, oddly annoyed at the explanation. It makes enough sense. Personally, he has never been great at healing magic, although growing up he was still leagues better at it than his brother. Especially back in the Snowdin days. He has too many memories growing up of dragging them both home from a scuffle, all the while wiping Red down with the end of his scarf to figure out what injuries should prioritise over others. 

It’s good to know that his panicked attempts from back when he was still in stripes was an actual technique. Even if he hates that it’s being used against him now by the mafia.

“you still seem pretty stiff, though,” Stretch continues, “so i thought we might try giving you a little booster before dragging you to the bathroom. i think it’s worth a shot, but what ‘bout you?”

Edge doesn’t say anything.

It’s tempting. Too tempting. Now that Stretch has brought his attention to it, he’s _itching_ to take a shower. And if he let this… this skeleton _heal_ him a bit in advance, he might be able to scrub more thoroughly without collapsing into an injured heap on the floor. But what’s the cost? How much will he regret this all later? And—

“hey,” Stretch says, cutting through his circling thoughts. All the teasing has left his voice, leaving nothing but a serious calm. His gaze is steady, near-white eye lights carefully meeting crimson. “there’s no need to freak out, you get me? if you just wanna go straight to cleaning up, you can do that too, no pressure.” He hesitates. “and, if you really want someone else to heal you, i’ll work on getting that arranged; i just can’t guarantee how soon i can get someone else here. but i refuse to see you hurtin’ and i _promise_ not to hurt you.” He crosses a finger over his ribcage — over his soul. “i give you my word.”

Edge squints, considering. On one hand, Stretch seems like he’s telling the truth. Despite his career, he’s known for being trustworthy. Helpful, even. But —

_listen here, lil bro. never trust the mafia. never._

— Edge has no way to tell for sure. In giving him choices, Stretch could easily be handing him the noose to hang himself. Running through his words again, he can’t seem to find any loopholes, but he’s tired. Just because he can’t find any — or, at least, nothing dangerous — it doesn’t mean he’s safe. Chances are, there’s still a price. There’s always a price.

Hopefully, it’s worth letting a mafia boss personally heal him. 

“Fine,” he says after a lengthy silence. “Show me the bathroom.” At the very least, this strange deal should help him regain his strength so he can fight against further incidents.

A smile creeps onto Stretch’s face. “whatever you say, kitten.”


End file.
